then decided I just couldn't. Today I hung around outside for half an hour, getting up courage to come in.'
'You may call it courage. I call it gall. Now you're here, what do you want?' The two men faced each other, both standing, in Nolan Wainwright's private office.. They were sharply in contrast: the stern, black, handsome bank vice-president of security, and Eastin, the ax-convict shrunken, pale, unsure, a long way from the bright and affable assistant operations manager who had worked at FMA only eleven months ago.
Their surroundings at this moment were spartan, compared with most other departments in the bank. Here were plain painted walls and gray metal furniture, including Wainwright's desk. The floor was carpeted, but thinly and economically. The bank lavished money and artistry on revenue-producing areas. Security was not among them. 'Well,' Wainwright repeated, 'what do you want?' 'I came to see if you'll help me.' 'Why should I?'
The younger man hesitated before answering, then said, still nervously, 'I know you tricked me with that first confession. The night I was arrested. My lawyer said it was illegal, it could never have been used in court. You knew that. But you let me go on thinking it was a legit confession, so I signed that second one for the FBI not knowing there was any difference…'
Wainwright's eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'Before I answer that, I want to know something. Are you carrying a recording device?' 'No.' 'Why should I believe you'
Miles shrugged, then held his hands above his head in the way he had learned from law-enforcement friskings and in prison.
For a moment it seemed as if Wainwright would refuse to search him, then quickly and professionally he patted down the other man. Miles lowered his arms.
'I'm an old fox,' Wainwright said. 'Guys like you think they can get smart and catch someone out, then start a legal suit. So you got to be a jailhouse lawyer?' 'No. All I found out about was the confession.'
'All right, you've brought it up, so I'll tell you about that. Sure I knew it might not hold water legally. Sure I tricked you. And something else: In the same circumstances, I'd do the same again. You were guilty, weren't you? You were about to send the Nunez girl to jail. What difference do the niceties make?' 'I only thought…'
'I know what you thought. You thought you'd come back here, and my conscience would be bleeding, and I'd be a pushover for some scheme you have or whatever else you want. Well, it isn't and I'm not.'
Miles Eastin mumbled, 'I had no scheme. I'm sorry I came.' 'What do you want?'
There was a pause while they appraised each other. Then Miles said, 'A job.' 'Here? You must be mad.'
'Why? I'd be the most honest employee the bank ever had.' 'Until somebody put pressure on you to steal again.'
'It wouldn't happent' Briefly, a flash of Miles Eastin's former spirit surfaced. 'Can't you, can't anybody, believe I've learned something? Learned about what happens when you steal. Learned never, ever, to do the same again. Don't you think there's not a temptation in the world I wouldn't resist now, rather than take a chance of going back to prison?'
Wainwright said gruffly, 'What I believe or disbelieve is immaterial. The bank has policies. One is not to employ anyone with a criminal record. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't change that.'
'But you could try. There are jobs, even here, where a criminal record would make no difference, where there's no way to be dishonest. Couldn't I get some kind of work like that?'
'No.' Then curiosity intruded. 'Why are you so keen to come back, anyway?'
'Because I can't get any kind of work, not anything, not a look-in, not a chance, anywhere else.' Miles's voice faltered. 'And because I'm hungry.' 'You're what?' 'Mr. Wainwright, it's been three weeks since I came out on parole. I've been out of money for more than a week. I haven't eaten in three days. I guess I'm desperate.' The voice which had faltered cracked and broke. 'Coming here… having to see you, guessing what you'd say… it was the last…'
While Wainwright listened, some of the hardness left his face. Now he motioned to a chair across the room. 'Sit down.'
He went outside and gave his secretary five dollars. 'Go to the cafeteria,' he instructed. 'Get two roast beef sandwiches and a pint of milk.'
When he returned, Miles Eastin was still sitting where he had been told, his body slumped, his expression listless. 'Has your parole officer helped?'
Miles said bitterly, 'He has a case load so he told me of a hundred and seventy-five parolees. He has to see everybody once a month, and what can he do for one? There are no jobs. All he gives is warnings.'
From experience, Wainwright knew what the warnings would be: Not to associate with other criminals whom Eastin might have met in prison; not to frequent known haunts of criminals. To do either, and be officially observed, would ensure a prompt return to prison. But in practice the rules were as unrealistic as they were archaic. A prisoner without financial means had the dice loaded against him so that association with others like himself was frequently his only method of survival. It was also a reason why the rate of recidivism among ax-convicts was so high. Wainwright asked, 'You've really looked for work?'
'Everywhere I could think of. And I haven't been fussy either.'
The closest Miles had been to a job in three weeks of searching had been as a kitchen helper in a third-rate, crowded Italian restaurant. The job was vacant and the proprietor, a sad whippet of a man, had been inclined to hire him. But when Miles revealed his prison record, as he knew he had to, he had seen the other glance at the cash register nearby. Even then the restaurateur had hesitated but his wife, a female drill sergeant, ruled, 'No! We can't afford to take a chance.' Pleading with them both had done no good.
Elsewhere, his parolee status had eliminated possibilities even faster.
'If I could do something for you, maybe I would.' Wainwright's tone had softened since the beginning of the interview. 'But I can't. There's nothing here. Believe me.' Miles nodded glumly. 'I guess I knew anyway.' 'So what will you try next?'
Before there was time to answer, the secretary returned, handing Wainwright a paper sack and change. When the girl had gone, he took out the milk and sandwiches and set them down as Eastin watched, moistening his lips. 'You can eat those here if you like.'
Miles moved quickly, removing the wrapping from the first sandwich with plucking fingers. Any doubts about the truth of his statement that he was hungry were banished as Wainwright observed the food devoured silently, with speed. And while the security chief watched, an idea began to form.
At the end, Miles emptied the last of the milk from a paper cup and wiped his lips. Of the sandwiches, not a crumb remained.
'You didn't answer my question,' Wainwright said. 'What will you try next?'
Perceptibly Eastin hesitated, then said flatly, 'I don't know.'
'I think you do know. And I think you're lying for the first time since you came in.' Miles Eastin shrugged. 'Does it matter any more?'
'My guess is this,' Wainwright said; he ignored the question. 'Until now you've stayed away from the people you knew in prison. But because you gained nothing here you've decided to go to them. You'll take a chance on being seen, and your parole.'
'What the hell other kind of chance is there? And if you know so much, why ask?' 'So you do have those contacts.'
'If I say yes,' Eastin said contemptuously, 'the first thing you'll do when I've gone is telephone the parole board.'
'No.' Wainwright shook his head. 'Whatever we decide, I promise you I won't do that.' 'What do you mean: 'Whatever we decide'?'
'There might just be something we could work out. If you were willing to run some risks. Big ones.' 'What kind of risks?'
'Leave that for now. If we need to, we'll come back to it. Tell me first about the people you got to know inside and those you can make contact with now.' Sensing continued wariness, Wainwright added, 'I give you my word I won't take advantage without your agreement of anything you tell me.'
'How do I know this isn't a trick the way you tricked me once before?'
'You don't. You'll take a chance on trusting me. Either that, or walk out of here and don't come back.'
Miles sat silent, thinking, occasionally moistening his lips in the nervous gesture he had exhibited earlier. Then abruptly, without outward sign of a decision, he began to talk.
